It's Not Me
by SomeoneNewer
Summary: To go from who she used to be and become someone new was the easy part. The hard part was going from who she used to be and becoming someone he wouldn't recognize. A follow up to Changes, and Flashing Back and Forth.
1. Prologue

_Where have I gone?_

_How long ago did I leave?_

_Where have I gone?_

_Can anyone still see me?_

_Where have I gone?_

_And who the hell should I believe is me?_

_**Hawksley Workman - It's Not Me**_

...

I've walked it before. This old dirt road. I think I walked it yesterday. And the day before that. And everyday leading to this one. It's hot and dry. Every step I take kicks up dust. The road stretches on forever in front of me, yet it's no longer than ever before. I know the end will come soon.

My head hurts. I press my hand to the side of it, hoping the pressure will alleviate the pain. No such luck. When I pull it away, it's red and wet. Bleeding again. Still? Bleeding still.

Up ahead it's raining. Good. I can rinse some of this out of my hair before I get to the stop sign. Always that old, rusty stop sign. I want to look my best.

I reach the point where the rain starts. The line across the road is perfect. I appreciate it for a moment before stepping into the downpour. It's painful at first. Reminiscent of what brought me here. Before long, though, it's a soothing, warm rain. It cleanses me of all traces of blood, dirt, and smoke, as I walk through. All of my wounds disappear in the healing water, and my pain is gone.

It's a brief rain shower, and before I know it, I'm back on the dusty, dry road. Much cleaner. Things much clearer. I look back and there's no trace of the rain. I continue on my way. I can see the stop sign now. Almost there.

In a blink, I'm standing at the end of the road. I can go left or right, not straight. Across the road is a tall field. Impossibly tall. Standing up like a wall. Straight across isn't an option. Someone else already took that way, and now it's closed off to me.

I can hear him coming now. Rustling in the brush of the field. I'm nervous at the thought of seeing him again. And of him seeing me. Before I can turn back, there he is, stalking out of the brush. A clown, but he's dressed as my Jack. He doesn't fool me, not anymore.

"Look at you," he rakes his eyes up my body. "All dressed up. Ready for your big day?"

I look down and see that I'm wearing a green and purple dress. No. The green and purple dress. When I look back up, the disguise has fallen away, and now he's just a scary clown, all traces of my Jack nowhere to be seen. The truthfulness of the change allows me to relax just a little bit.

"I don't know..." I stammer dumbly.

He pulls his scarred, red lips back in an exaggerated expression of uncertainty. "Well, you've got an important decision to make, Sugar," he starts circling me. "Left or right."

"What's right?" I ask, catching his eyes with mine as he stops and stands before me, his hands coming to rest on my hips.

"Just a matter of perspective," he shakes his head dismissively. "You always go right. It brings you back here. You know what's right."

My eyes flutter closed and I sigh. "So, what's left?" I open them and the clown once again has Jack's face. And he's sad. Heartbroken. Devastated.

He shrugs, bringing gentle hands to my face. "Only one way to find out."

...

First there were explosions. Just sounds suddenly booming in my ears from the darkness. Varying volumes. Varying distances. All around. Engines. Beeping. Loud, frenzied voices. Crying. Metal on metal. Squeaking shoes. Low, hushed tones. Comforting whispers. It comes and goes in waves. Feels like a lifetime.

Then, sensations. Hot and cold, a lot of those. Pain. Dull and throbbing. Softness beneath me. Cool cotton in my fingers. A sharp jab. An itch on my calf. A damp cloth. A hand on my skin. A headache. Oh, what a headache. I know that headache.

Finally, bursts of vision. Bright white. The sun in my eyes, never wanting to leave. White walls. Blurry silhouettes passing a door. Faceless people, too distant to see. A monitor of some description. Hard, off white plastic. Fluorescent lights. A note above me.

"You're in the hospital.

Stay calm.

Push the button in your right hand.

You are safe."

Safe. What does that mean?

Well, it means I'm alive, for one thing. But what else?

Push the button. Right. Right hand.

God, it's like I'm in slow motion. Like I haven't moved in, how long? I don't know. Moving my thumb to press the button hurts all the way up to my neck.

I have questions. Can I talk? No one's here yet. I try to hum. It's rough. Dry and painful. I try to open my mouth. The pain shoots from my jaw to behind my eyes. I cry out. Too dry. It makes me start to cough.

My chest aches. My lungs scream. Stay calm.

Can't breathe.

Panicking.

A silhouette in the door. I reach out. They hurry to me. Three of them. Easing me down. Talking calmly. Shushing me. I look at their faces. Calm concern. Attentive care. Cautious optimism.

I relax.

I'm alive.

I'm safe.

I'm awake.

...

A/N: A short one to start things off. I'm so glad some of my old pals are still around here and were excited to see the updates. It was great hearing from you guys! I hope you enjoy things as they progress. Thanks to all who read, reviewed, faved, and followed Changes and Flashing. I hope you like It's Not Me. My goal is to update every Sunday. Keep your eyes peeled!


	2. Chapter 1

_Dust devil swept you away_

_It's still not real_

_Ash and urn and silence_

_Talk to me_

_Dust devil swept you away_

_My recollections are all that's left of you_

_Swirl and sway_

_Without me_

_**Puscifer - Horizons**_

Twenty-seven days. That's how long I've been in the hospital. I spent eight of those days in a coma. The last nineteen were spent in varying states of consciousness, and I remember none of them. I was dead when I arrived, clinically. I had to be revived. Then, they lost me again while working on me. Dead. Twice. And still here.

My doctor is fairly young, fairly handsome, and fairly cold as he explains the extent of my injuries. He's a neurologist. Apparently, I'd taken quite a beating. I don't remember it. In the days I spent trying to wake up, I'd suffered seizures. The pain in my jaw when I opened my mouth was due to a fracture in my jaw. The wires had been taken out just over a week ago, but between the fracture and disuse, I could expect some discomfort for a little while. I'm experiencing some blurred vision in my left eye. He says that may or may not be permanent. Helpful. He explains that the injury also impacts my left pupils reaction time. There's a delay in dilation, and that would likely result in light sensitivity with that eye.

And those are just the head injuries. Broken collarbone. Two broken ribs. Bruised kidney. Dislocated hip. All of these injuries on my left side. He tells me his assumption is that, whatever happened, I ended up on the ground, on my right side.

Now that he's answered most of my questions, without me having to ask a single one of them, he's going to start asking them.

"I know that's all a lot to take in," he can't feign sympathy to save his life, but seeing he saved mine, I'll let it slide. "But if you don't mind, now that you're awake, and you seem quite responsive, I'd like to try and get some information from you, if that's alright? Let's start with your name."

It's more of a demand than a request, but now I know something. I'm a Jane Doe. They don't know who I am. In that case, neither will I. "I... I don't know," my voice it's a rasp. My jaw aches from the movement.

Dr. Elliot sighs. "I was afraid of that," he scribbles something on his clipboard. "Any recollection of what happened to you?" I shake my head, honestly, as he continues to talk and scribble. "Any memory of anything prior to waking up in the hospital?"

"No," I begin, then. "Or... maybe? I don't know, everything's so scrambled."

He waves his hand and shushes me, a gesture that reminds me of someone else I'd rather not think about. Like him, it was more of a dismissive gesture than a reassuring one. "Don't stress about it. If you try to force memories, they'll end up headaches. They'll either come or they won't. Stress won't help."

"That's comforting," the sarcasm is apparent even in my weak, raspy voice.

He collects himself, surprised. "I'm sorry, but we need to be realistic and grateful for the milestones we are experiencing. You're alive," he smiles. It's more pride than happiness, but it's genuine. "Hoping for that was a lot when you arrived. And now you're awake. Talking. Moving. Some amnesia, we'll deal with. And now that you're awake, we can get your permission to send a picture to the media. Family, friends, they're sure to recognize you."

I start shaking my head as soon as he mentions the picture.

"No?" He's annoyed. "Why not?"

I sigh. "Look, all I know is what you told me. Someone wanted me dead. They tried to beat me to death. Maybe they think they succeeded. We don't even know that there's anyone out there who gives a damn about me, but we know that there's someone out there who wanted me dead. The answer is no, Doctor, and I expect you to respect that."

He holds his hands up defensively and actually looks a bit impressed at my little rant. "Fine, fine. I can't say it doesn't make sense. If you change your mind, you let us know," he stands. "We're not going to waste time now that you're awake. There's some physiotherapy you're going to need after your injuries and spending four weeks in bed. We'll start that tomorrow. There are going to be nurses in to check on you every hour. They'll wake you if you're sleeping. They'll ask you where you are, who your doctor is, and how many fingers. Now that you're with us, we've got to make sure we keep it that way," he taps my bed with the clipboard in his hand. "TV remote is on the table there. Get comfortable. Rest when you need to. Buzz if you need anything."

"Thank you, Dr. Elliot," I reach for the remote.

"See you soon," he turns on his heel and leaves.

...

The television didn't have much to offer, so I switch it to GCN. They're just finishing up a story on disgraced psychologist, Jonathan Crane. This leads them, naturally, to talking about the Batman. I remember hearing this and that about him before, but I was so wrapped up in my own life that I didn't pay very close attention. I thought it all sounded kind of silly. Turns out he's a pretty big deal. He's solving cases that the politics haven't been able to touch. He's got criminals running scared. And he's got a new target. I turn up the volume.

"We can only hope, in the face of this new threat, that the Batman won't let us down," says the stern anchor. Next to him on the screen is displayed a joker card, and a grainy security-camera capture of a man in a crude, rubber, clown mask, with a shotgun propped on his shoulder. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I can't see his face, but it's him. There's no question.

The Joker. It's not clear if the media dubbed him that or if he chose it himself, but either way, that's what they're calling him. He's left the calling card as a souvenir at a number of crime scenes. Armed robbery. Homicide. Arson. All of the security images they show have him sporting the hideous clown mask.

The segment is short. I'm disappointed. I'd have liked to have more information. Oh well, I'm sure there'll be more to come. I turn the TV off. Nothing else is going to distract me from that today. I lay myself back on the hospital pillows, but don't close my eyes. I let thoughts of Jack, the Joker, flit in and out of my mind. I'm still not certain who put me in the hospital. Both who beat me, and who brought me here. I have suspicions about the former, but I'm clueless about the latter.

I think on a threat from Warren. If Jack didn't give himself up, Warren was going to come for me. I remember that last night in the motel with Jack, and I remember waking up that morning without him. I remember getting into a car and driving up to exit the hotel parking lot. I'm not sure if I go left or right. That's all I remember.

Two sharp knocks interrupt my thoughts. I look up to see a sweet looking nurse. Mid thirties, round face, chubby. She's smiling kindly at me. "Good mornin', sunshine," her voice is high but soft. Everything about her presence is comforting. "My name is Ruth. How ya feeling?"

I shrug with my right shoulder as she grabs my clipboard and comes to my bedside. She has a couple other items tucked under her arm.

"You know where you are?" She asks, as expected.

I smile and look down, ready for the routine. "I'm in the hospital."

She makes a mark on the clipboard. "Uh-huh. Your doctor is...?"

" ," I nod once as I reply.

Another mark. "Right. And, how many fingers?" She holds up two fingers.

I mimic the action. "Two."

I pass. She beams. "That's great, sunshine. Now, I got somethin' for ya here," she grabs one of the aforementioned items from under her arm and sets the second item down on the table beside me. She's fumbling with a cumbersome assortment of black straps and material. "I know it looks like a lot, but now that you're awake and aware, we need to keep your bones healing nicely. Dr. Elliot explained your injuries to you, did he?" I nodded. "Good stuff. So, that collarbone. You'll need to wear this sling, especially since you're gonna be up and about starting tomorrow. This is going to restrict your movement and keep that break aligned so that it heals together like it should, okay?"

"Okay," I agree.

"I'm gonna help you, but I need you to just scoot your right leg over a bit - and I'll help you do that - so I can sit down by you and get this all hooked up," as she's talking, she applies a gentle pressure to the outside of my leg, just above the knee, that allows me to move it out of her way. I'm surprised to find that I may not have been able to do it without her help. She sits. "Good stuff. Now, this might be a bit uncomfortable, but if anything outright hurts, I want you to tell me right away, okay?" I nod. "Put your right hand on my shoulder here and - very, very gently - lean forward," I follow her direction, but it isn't easy. "Just put all your weight right here on me, sweetie," she reaches around me with one of the straps and secures it around my chest, about where my bra would sit. "Is that okay there? With your ribs?" She looks me in the eye with gentle concern when she speaks. I nod. "Okay. Not too much longer," she brings two straps up from behind me, one over each shoulder. "Okay, I'm going to help you lay back, but we've got to go slow and easy, 'kay? Ready?" With her help, I ease myself back onto my pillows.

"This piece here goes on your left arm," she picks up a piece of padded material. "It'll cradle it from elbow to wrist, and these straps will buckle it in, alright?" I nod. She carefully picks up my arm and eases it into place, then wraps the padded piece around it. She secures it with the straps exactly as she'd described. "Okay, we've got one more step, and I'll need you to sit up again in just a minute," she reaches to the table and picks up the other item. It's a slightly larger piece of padded fabric. "This goes around your chest and holds your arm in place here," she touches my arm above the elbow. "And then I'll get you to tell me what's comfortable and we'll adjust it if we need to."

Once again, she helps me sit up, supporting my weight with my hand on her shoulder. She quietly puts everything in place. I feel tied up. It's not pleasant, but not uncomfortable. "How's that, on your ribs there?"

I nod. "It's fine."

She smiles. "I know it's awkward. The good thing is, you got most of your healing done while you were sleeping. You should only need this on for a couple weeks," she assures me. "So, if you're okay, I'm going to get you to take your hand down and try to support yourself for just a minute. If you can't, put your hand right back there and we'll lay you down. I just want to be sure we're good for fit."

I nod, again, and carefully let my hand down from her shoulder. "Sit straight?" I'm already feeling tired, like I'm doing a strenuous exercise movement, and not simply sitting up.

"Straight as you can, sunshine," she nods, keeping her eyes on the fit of the sling as I try to sit up straight. "Looks good. How's it feel?"

"Good," I breathe. "I can't..."

I don't have to finish my sentence. Ruth is up and easing me backwards onto the pillows. "You did awesome," she smiles brightly. "Really. Super."

I give a slight smile back at her. "Thanks."

She picks up my clipboard. "Okay, now, anything you need before I go? Dinnertime is your next visit. They're going to start you off with just some soup, but it's good soup," she promises. "You'll have Amanda this evening, but I'll be back tomorrow morning to see you."

"I'm good. Thanks, Ruth."

"You're very welcome," she moves to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

After she leaves, I decide to try and get a nap in before dinner. If I'm going to be woken every hour, I figure getting as many hours in as possible is probably a good idea. This seems like it's going to be a long process, and there's still so much I want to know about what happened, what's next, and what the Joker is planning.

...

A/N - Chapter 1. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks to all who read, reviewed, faved, and followed the stories in this series. See you next week!


	3. Chapter 2

_Oh my life is changing everyday_

_In every possible way_

_And oh my dreams_

_It's never quite as it seems_

_Never quite as it seems_

_**Cranberries - Dreams**_

My first meeting with the physiotherapist is an assessment, more than anything. Dr. Elliot comes to my room and helps me into a wheelchair. He's going to be present for the first session, and weekly after that to measure my progress. The physiotherapist is a friendly man named Keith. Middle aged, physically fit, and soft spoken, but with a booming, jovial laugh.

"The first thing I need you to do for me is stand up," he explains. "If you can get standing by yourself without too much difficulty, I'm going to get you to take a couple of steps and show you how to use a cane to support that hip," he grabs his own left hip with his hand as he speaks. "Now, before you get up, some ground rules. Don't try to throw yourself out of the chair. Take your time. The wheels are locked, hold on with your right hand, and slowly stand up," he leans forward in an exaggerated manner. "I don't want to see you doing this. Don't lean forward to far and hope gravity will do the work. Your body will let you down if you don't trust it. You won't be able to straighten yourself before gravity plants your face. Try to pretend it isn't hard, but remember that it will be. You ready?"

I sigh. "No, but what the Hell?"

He claps. "Ha! That's the spirit."

He stands easily and moves closer to me, presumably to keep me from falling and injuring myself further. My feet are already on the ground, so I carefully inch my bum forward in the seat and sit up straight. "That's it," he says, approvingly. "Nice and slow."

I grip the arm of the chair tightly in my right hand. "Not too tight, there, okay? We want your legs to do most of the work here," I nod at him as I continue to manoeuvre myself into a more comfortable position to stand from. Once I'm straightened in my seat and feeling reasonably steady, I slowly start to pull myself to my feet.

It shocks me how hard it really is just to stand. My legs are like rubber. The feeling is similar to the weakness after strenuous exercise. Then, I notice a shooting pain in my hip. I wince, but don't waver. "'Atta girl," Keith cheers me on confidently. "You got this," I let go of the chair as I come to my full height. My body sways momentarily with unsteadiness as the controlled motion stops. I put my right hand out towards Keith, as I'm uncertain about my balance, and my left arm is immobilized in the sling.

"Excellent job," he grins. "Now, I know you're unsteady, but you feel okay? Not feeling like you're going to hit the floor?"

I shake my head. "I think I'm good."

"Perfect," he keeps his eyes on me, but leans sideways and easily finds the cane that's leaning on his desk. "You're a little but taller than I thought. I'm gonna give you this, then I'll adjust it. It's a feel thing, so you'll have to give me some feedback," I take the offered cane and Keith kneels down to adjust it. I look to Dr. Elliot who is taking the odd note and looking fairly bored with it all. I feel a gentle tugging on the cane as Keith touches it to the floor. "Try that. You want to feel supported. You should be able to put your weight on the cane, with a straight arm, without leaning to the side."

I test the cane. "It feels good. It's comfortable."

He stands up. "Okay. I'm going to get you to take some steps. You're going to go from here to the chair next to Dr. Elliot. Then we're gonna try to get you to sit. 'Kay?" I nod. "When you walk with a cane, you'll move it forward with your bad leg, got it? That'll support you as you bring your good leg forward. Give it a try. Lead with your left, go ahead."

I follow his directions and move towards Dr. Elliot. It's challenging, but I'm able to do it. It's four steps to the chair, then another step to turn around. Keith stays with me as I walk the short distance. He looks very pleased. "That's great. That's great! You're killin' it."

I chuckle. "Should I sit?" My voice is hopeful. The small amount of activity has quickly tired me out.

Keith laughs his loud laugh and gives another clap. "Yeah, okay, you can sit. Don't get too excited, though. It's got to be careful and controlled. If you let yourself fall to the seat, you'll only do more damage. We need to retrain your muscles to do all of these simple tasks we so often take for granted," he explains. "Taking a seat, for you, isn't going to be the same as taking a load off for quite awhile. Ever go to sit on the toilet after leg day and wish nature hadn't called?" I furrow my brow in confusion. He looks at Dr. Elliot, who sighs. "Just me? Okay," another laugh.

"What I need you to do is put a fair amount of support in your right hand and right leg, and straighten that left leg out - Tommy, can you come forward a bit just in case she needs... thank you - now usually there'd be a second arm you could support yourself with, but because of your injuries, what you need to do is lean a bit to the right as you lower yourself down. The goal is to come down almost entirely on that right glute before you transfer your right evenly to the other side," I'm doing each movement as he directs and slowly, with some discomfort, I'm able to sit in the chair without any assistance. Again, Keith looks proud. Even Dr. Elliot looks impressed. "And there it is. Right on, girl, that's perfect. Do you have any concerns or questions about anything so far?"

"How long am I looking at? Realistically?" I'm afraid of the answer, but I needed to ask.

"We've got an eight week program outlined, three days a week here with me and four days of independent exercise in your own," he explains.

"Eight weeks?!" I'm stunned. "That's two months."

Dr. Elliot speaks this time. "The goal, medically, is to have you ready for discharge in one. The additional four weeks would be an outpatient program," he clarifies.

I relax. "That sounds more reasonable."

"Let me be perfectly clear here, Miss, you're lucky to be alive. Four weeks of in hospital care in this case is minimal," he seems annoyed, but I'm taking that to be his personality more than anything. "And until you start getting your memory back, you've got nowhere else to go."

I narrow my eyes at him. 'Joke's on you,' I think to myself. 'I've got nowhere to go, anyway.'

...

Keith gives me a couple of exercises I can do in my hospital bed to help straighten my legs. He also instructs me to get up once every two hours when the nurse comes in to check on me through the day, a minimum of six times. I'm too walk from my bed to a chair across the room - or to the bathroom if needed -, sit down, get up, and walk back to my bed. My hourly checks would go down to every two hours starting tonight and he wants me to start this new regimen tomorrow.

When Dr. Elliot leaves me in my room after the physiotherapy appointment, I'm feeling exhausted, but also feeling something I hadn't felt since waking up. Hopeful. Optimistic. The prospect of being able to walk out of this hospital in the near future and into a new life is exciting. Terrifying, but exciting. It's a good feeling.

Right away once I'm settled, I flick the TV onto GCN and start doing my exercises. Lifting each leg one at a time, pointing my toes out and then up before lowering them. Bending my knees up one at a time, rotating them outwards, then back up before straightening the leg back out. Doing each one with each leg fifteen times, however long it takes to accomplish the task, not rushing myself. It's tiring and tedious, but it's working towards something, so I push through.

GCN is reporting on a recent bank robbery orchestrated by none other than the Joker. A busy bank in the heart of downtown. In the middle of the day. All men in clown masks. All robbers dead apart from one, who made away in, of all things, a school bus. I shake my head. How over the top can one man be?

Just then, Ruth walks in with supper. "Hey there, Sunshine, how's it going?" She smiles brightly, glancing at the TV. "Isn't that awful? I sure hope they catch that man soon."

I nod. "Yeah, me, too. What's on the menu?" I look suspiciously at the bowl.

"It's a sweet potato soup," she uncovers it. It doesn't look half bad, and it smells even better. "It's actually really nice. Give it a go."

I sit up and let her push the tray over my lap. "Thanks, I will."

"How was Keith? I know we're gonna be getting you up a little bit tomorrow. How did you find it?" She hands me a spoon.

I shrug as I stir the soup, savoring the aroma as it wafts into the air. "I'm pretty beat, but he was great. Really supportive. Informative. It's good to have some kind of a timeline. Hey," I pause, taking a small spoonful of soup to my lips. "What if I don't ever remember? What happens? Obviously I can't stay here forever."

She smiles at me. "No, but let's not think like that. Dr. Elliot is the best neurologist in the city. We've got some amazing psychologists. You'll get your memory back. And if it doesn't come back before you're better, there are outpatient programs to help you. We won't just throw you out on the street."

I smile and turn back to my food. "Good to know."

...

"Hey, Sugar," the voice is behind me, but I don't turn around. I know the voice, and he'll be in front of me soon, even though I don't hear any movement. "Where ya been?"

"Left," I sigh. "I left, Jack. Where are we?" I look around. There is blackened, charred rubble under my feet. Jack examines the surroundings with me.

"I suppose it does look different than it did last time you were here," he kicks some of the debris around and picks something up. "You weren't the only bat here."

It's a baseball bat. Blood soaked into the wood. "What's that?"

He holds it out to me. "Salvation, Sugar."

"Jack..."

"Take it," he growls. "Don't make me give it to you, Sugar, I can't."

I shake my head.

"Take it!" He roars, shaking. "Please!" He rushes towards me, raising it high above his head.

"Wake up!" My eyes shoot open as the bat connects with my head. Only there isn't a bat. No Jack. Just two worried nurses. One sitting on the bed leaning over me, the other hovering over the other side, shining a light into my eyes. I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding and smile apologetically at the women.

"She's awake," one of them calls as Dr. Elliot bursts into the room.

"She's awake? Miss? Are you okay?" He hurries the second nurse off my bed and sits himself in her place. "Do you remember who I am?"

I nod. "Dr. Elliot," I reply. "And I remember going to physio. All of that."

He nods, scribbling on my clipboard. "I came right in when they couldn't wake you. They left you for three hours. There was a communication error. We were twenty minutes trying to get you back. I feared the worst with your progress."

"Maybe I was just tired?" I suggest. "It was a busy day."

He nods. "Maybe. Now," his eyes are alight with something I've not seen from him. "While it's still fresh. Who's Jack?"

I freeze. Shit. "Jack?" I frown.

"Yes, 'Jack,'" he repeats himself. "You said that name twice while you were walking up."

I shake my head. "I-I-I don't know."

"You do know," he insists. "You just don't remember."

"Right," I relent.

"That's where we're going to start. If we can find out who Jack is, maybe we can help you remember who you are," he explains.

I sigh. I've got to play along. "I'm in your hands, Dr. Elliot."

He grins. Great. Now I've got to convince the best neurologist in Gotham that my brain isn't working properly.

...

A/N - Hi all! I know it's slow starting, but we've got to get Kaylie back up on her feet in order for the fun to begin. There's going to be a familiar face in the next chapter to look forward to. I hope you're enjoying it so far. Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, faved, and followed so far! See you all next week!


	4. Chapter 3

_And in a few days_

_I will be there, love_

_Whatever here that's left of me_

_Is yours just as it was_

_**Hozier - As It Was**_

"I don't remember."

It had become a staple in any conversation I had with Dr. Tommy Elliot. It had plainly become a source if frustration for him. He looked at brain scans for a living. He dealt with people with brain injuries everyday. My case was "atypical," he had said. With all of the other progress I'd been making in my recovery, and considering I had dreamt about and named someone he'd assumed, correctly, was a figure from my past, he thought I should be having some sort of improvement where my waking memories were concerned. But I wouldn't budge. I wouldn't give him anything.

As far as my physiotherapy was concerned, I was progressing as expected. Getting stronger everyday. I was able to get up and take short walks on the hospital floor. I was able to take myself to my physiotherapy appointments. Today, my sling is finally set to come off and I'll be able to start working on strengthening my arm and shoulder. Keith was just running a few minutes late. I busied myself fidgeting with some fray on the palm of the sling while I waited. Almost fifteen minutes passed before he came through the door with a hurried pace.

"I'm so sorry," he blurted as he rounded his desk to sit down. "I got caught up with a patient upstairs. I tried to cut it short, but there wasn't much I could do to hurry it."

"Oh, yeah, no worries," I assured him. "Ruth told me," I held my arm out as much as I could in the sling. "What do ya say, Keith? Freedom?"

He laughed and stood up. "I guess I did keep you waiting."

He came around and carefully, but easily, removed the sling. I'd had it off whenever I'd needed to shower, but I wasn't allowed to move it. I had to hold it close into my body at the same angle the sling kept it. Keith slowly straightened my arm out. The movement brought a dull throb of pain through the muscles of my arm. There was also an obvious weakness that reminded me of how my legs had felt when I'd first started using them again after waking up. I hissed through my teeth at the pain.

Keith nodded. "Yeah, there's gonna be some of that. But you'll work through it in no time. You're a powerhouse."

I laughed painfully as he continued working my arm in different directions, into different positions, testing my range of motion. "Yeah, I feel like a superhero."

He chuckled quietly and laid my arm at my side. "Not yet, just give it time. Okay, so with this, we're going to get you doing the same for movements, but as you progress, we're going to slowly add weight. I'm going to show you the movements and you just mirror them as best you can, 'kay?" I nodded. "First movement."

He raised his arm in front of him with his arm bent at the elbow, parallel to his chest, and then slowly straightened his elbow and then brought it back in. I followed suit, with effort, and a bit of shaking. "Nice and easy, try for eight repetitions," I suck my lips between my teeth and slowly work through eight repetitions. My arm feels like lead by the end of just the first movement. "Any pain?"

I shake my head. "No pain, but it feels useless. It's so weak."

"This will strengthen it," he urges, gently. "Next movement," he turns in his seat so he's side on to me. He raises his arm to the side, again, with a bend in the elbow, to shoulder height. Then, he rotates his arm so that his fist is in the air, and finally, he straightens his arm. After that, he does each movement in reverse, bringing his arm back to the starting position.

The next movement starts the same as the one prior to it, except rather than straightening his arm, he presses it upward, then back down again. That one hurts a bit, but he assures me that the dull ache is okay, but any sharp or stabbing pain would be alarming. The final movement is simply a shrug, bringing my shoulder to my ear and back down. Each movement for eight repetitions.

"Now that you've got all those down pat, you can head out to the gym and work your legs for the last half of your session. Do the full half hour. My next appointment is an outpatient, he's just going to come right through to the office for a progress assessment, so you can carry on and not worry about it. All good?"

I nod, standing up. "All good."

He gestures to my arm. "You'll have to concentrate on holding your arm naturally for awhile. It'll feel normal again soon enough, but until then, you'll have to focus on it."

I look down. My arm is in sling position. I laugh and lower it to my side. "So, I shall."

...

There are a couple of regulars in the gym working through various injuries. We make light conversation as we work. I'm walking back and forth on the track. I've got less than fifteen minutes left. I turn around just as the door to the physio gym opens up. My eyes naturally move to the doorway, a casual smile, ready to greet the newcomer. It falls when I recognize the person who enters.

Doc.

"It can't be," his voice is disbelieving as his eyes meet mine.

My head suddenly explodes with a headache as I recognize the look on his face as being the same one he wore the last time he saw me. The face behind the rolling doors of the warehouse where I was meant to die. Both hands come to my head as I feel my legs falter.

"Hey!" I hear Keith from across the room. "Derek, call for Dr. Elliot," I can hear everything going on around me. I feel Keith reach my side and ease me into a comfortable laying position on the floor.

I hear Dr. Elliot come into the room and rush to my side. "What happened?"

"I just caught the tail end," the concern is apparent in Keith's voice. "She grabbed her head and fell. She was fine earlier. Normal."

"It happened just as Arthur walked in," Derek, one of the other patients, chimed in. "She saw him and hit the deck."

I feel my headache subsiding and open my eyes in time to see Dr. Elliot stand and turn towards Doc. "Arthur?"

He nods. "Art, actually," Doc's gravelly voice corrects him.

"Do you know this woman?" He points down at me. Soon after, Doc's face comes into view. He still looks surprised, but also sad. My eyes are pleading with him.

He sighs deeply and shakes his head, looking back to Dr. Elliot. "Nah. Thought she was familiar. My niece is missin', but her eyes are blue. Not brown," his eyes meet mine again. "This isn't her."

...

After all of the hullabaloo surrounding my fall had died down, I am alone in my room and able to think about what had happened. Doc had seen me. He knew I was alive. He was also among the group of people who had tried to kill me almost two months ago, now. I knew, from piecing together the coverage, that Warren and his goons had been a part of my beating at the warehouse, and that they'd been killed. I also knew that a Joker card had been placed in the dirt at the scene. I assumed that Jack had likely killed my attackers. So, why was Doc still alive? I have a sinking feeling that there's only one reason he would have been spared. And Jack would have had a tougher time reaching his ever-growing level of notoriety without an ally.

A single, hard knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I look up to see the reason for them standing in the doorway. "Doc," I can't help but gasp.

He has a black duffel bag with him, and I can't help but think it looks ominous. He steps in the room. Panicked, I go to reach for the buzzer to call a nurse. "Don't," he puts a hand out. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I settle for holding the buzzer in my lap. A lifeline. A safety net. "What are you doing here? What's in the bag?"

His eyes still have that disbelieving gleam in them. "Me? What are you doing here? Kaylie, you died. I saw it happen."

I chuckle and look at my hands, fidgeting with the buzzer. "Well, maybe you should go to floor three and get your eyes checked while you're here. They're good there. They've got my left eye about as good as it's going to get. Seventy-five percent vision restored. Slow to react, though. The light can give me headaches."

"I'm sorry, Kaylie," he pulls the visitors chair over and sits down by the bed.

"Fuck you," tears have sprung to my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "And don't call me that. Someone might hear."

He nods and glances around to make sure no one is close by. "I never thought Warren would do that. He was a callous prick, but I've never seem him so vicious. I never would have gone along with that plan. I was expecting Jack."

I look at him, sadness in my eyes meeting the regret in his. "And you got him?" My voice is quiet.

He nods somberly. "Eventually."

A tear finally escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek as I, again, look down at my hands. Doc continues. "Change your name," he urges. "Get out. You're dead. He already knows you're dead. He found you dead and accepted it. He won't dig," he promises me. "You'll be safe. Somewhere else. As someone else. You were beaten to death in that warehouse, doll, how I'm talking to you now, I'll never know," he's still looking at me like I'm a ghost. "I was too weak and too chicken shit to do anything then, but I'm not gonna kill you twice. So go. You don't need to be in this town when he burns it down. Especially a hospital."

I look at him, puzzled at that remark. "What does that mean?"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, just go. Tonight. As soon as you can," he drops the bag next to the bed and kicks it so that it's hidden from sight by the bedside table. "Some clothes. Essentials. And money. Not much, but it'll get you started somewhere. Don't look back. Promise me you'll go," I nod and go to thank him. "Don't you dare thank me," he stands up to leave, gesturing between us pointedly. "I don't wanna see you again, kid," I nod.

I watch him leave.

He doesn't look back.

...

A/N - Painfully familiar faces! I have to admit, Doc is one of my favourite characters from Changes. It was hard knowing he was just standing by while Kaylie was being beaten to death, but that sort of lifelong, goonish loyalty is what keeps someone like Doc alive in the underworld he's chosen to live in. I wanted to give him a little bit of redemption. And, obviously, seeing he's working with the Joker, we haven't seen the last of him. Sorry for this being a day late. I had family Easter stuff all weekend. I hope any of you who celebrate had a nice holiday. I also hope you're all enjoying this story. I know it's slow going, but she did suffer major trauma, so her recovery had to take some time. Now that Doc has lit a fire under her, the ball can really get rolling. Thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed, faved, and followed! See you next week!


End file.
